Chapter Twenty-Two
After our fightabout living together, I discovered why Landen seemed to take the situation in stride so easily.
The sneaky man had a plan. He always did.
He stayed with me the rest of the weekend and asked me to spend the night at his place on Monday. Since he’d been gone for a week, I readily agreed even though the first day of the workweek was usually hectic and all I wanted to do when I got home on Monday night was veg out in front of the television.
When I arrived at his place on Monday, Landen opened the front door with a huge grin on his face and a kitchen towel slung over his shoulder.
As he took my overnight bag from my hand, he gestured toward the kitchen. “Dinner’s almost ready. I’ll take this upstairs and meet you in the kitchen.”
I watched him jog upstairs with my bag in his hand, noting that there was a bounce in his step. Curious and a little suspicious, I made my way into the kitchen and nearly moaned when I smelled something delicious. I did moan when I saw an open wine bottle and an empty glass waiting on the counter. Assuming it was for me, I poured a healthy amount out of the bottle and took a sip. It was superb.
Carrying the glass with me, I moved to the oven and peeked inside. He was making roasted chicken with potatoes and carrots, one of my favorites.
It seemed Landen Weber intended to pull out the big guns in his efforts to convince me to live with him. He was making me dinner and had wine open and ready when I arrived.
I moved over to a stool by the island and kicked off my heels before I sat down. I alternately sipped wine and rubbed the arches of my feet. Since Chris announced he was promoting me, I’d made more of an effort with my wardrobe. Instead of occasionally grabbing a pair of sensible flats or heeled sandals, I wore pumps. Every day. And though I typically wore dresses, I paid more attention to colors and lines. I wanted to look professional and put together. Like a boss rather than an employee. Or at least the kind of boss I wanted to be.
As a result, my feet were often killing me by the end of the day.
I heard Landen’s footsteps in the hall outside the kitchen and turned toward the door.
When he saw me sitting at the island, barefoot and with my wineglass in front of me, he smiled.
“Dinner smells amazing,” I commented, sipping more of the chilled white wine.
“I can’t promise that it will taste amazing, but I think it’ll do,” he replied. As he spoke, he reached into the fridge and removed a large glass bowl filled with salad.
“Do you want to eat at the table or is the island okay with you?”
Since I didn’t want to move, I answered, “The island is fine.”
He brought the bowl over and set it to my left.
As I watched him gather plates, cutlery, and tongs for the salad, I forced myself to ask, “Can I do anything to help?”
I honestly didn’t want to get up but I was also uncomfortable sitting around and watching him do all the work while I sat around doing nothing.
“No, thanks. You relax and drink your wine. It’s almost ready.”
I bit back a snicker as he reached into a drawer and pulled out a woven trivet. Then my amusement took a backseat to curiosity. Most of the men I knew didn’t even know what a trivet was, much less own one. Or use it if they did. I wondered who bought it for him.
A few moments later, the thought vanished from my mind because he set the dish of chicken on the trivet and it smelled divine. My mouth watered at the sight of the golden, crispy skin and the roasted potatoes and carrots.
Though I didn’t want to get up, I clambered off the stool and moved to the sink to wash my hands, watching as Landen brought several bottles of salad dressing to the island. I was grateful for that because he would have given me a complex if he started whipping up a vinaigrette. He certainly wasn’t joking when he said he knew how to cook.
Which I should have believed after he made me pancakes the first time I spent the night at his house. Landen wasn’t the type of guy to embellish or outright lie to impress a woman. He might be arrogant but only because he knew he had his shit together. Though I would never tell him that because he was fairly confident all on his own.
“Do you want light meat or dark?” Landen asked.
“I want a drumstick and a chunk of breast meat,” I answered cheekily as I picked up the bottle of white wine and topped off my glass. “Do you want wine or something else?”
“Beer. It’s in the fridge.”
When I returned with the bottle, I tried to twist the top off, hissing when the cap dug into the skin of my palm. “Okay, so it’s not a twist off.”
Landen chuckled. “You okay?” When I nodded, he gestured to the drawer next to the fridge. “There’s a bottle opener in there. Do you mind?”
